


One Man's Fairytale

by LeapAngstily



Series: Fairytale Endings [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a homosexual in the world of professional football is far from easy, but there is no option but to cope with it if you want to make it to the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the beginning

_Welcome to my life_  
  
  
Riccardo’s earliest childhood memory is about football.  
  
He remembers a time his father took him to watch a match of AC Milan. The memory is vague – he cannot even remember who the opposing team was – but what he  _does_  remember is the excitement he felt while watching the beautiful game to unfold. He remembers one player particularly well: dark curly hair pulled back from his face, the kind of fire in his eyes that made it impossible to look away.  
  
Riccardo remembers deciding right then and there that this was what he wanted to become when he grew up – the world’s best footballer, surrounded by all those amazing players he was so fond of watching.  
  
As a child it all seemed so simple: not a trace of humility or self-doubt in his mind, just a decision that would make all his dreams come true.  
  
Soon after, he began playing at a local football club. He was just a kid back then, coordination skills yet to fully develop and baby fat still apparent. He grew up playing, living and breathing only football: at practice, at school, at their backyard, with the neighbourhood kids, even in Germany when he was visiting his grandparents during summer holidays.  
  
The German boys kicking the ball in the yard had been wary of him at first, of this tiny (he would outgrow most of them in the years to come) Italian boy who insisted on playing with them. They warmed up to him eventually, though, because that is what children do.  
  
They used to pretend they were playing in the World Cup,  _die Mannschaft_  versus the  _Azzurri_. For some reason none of the other boys ever wanted to play on Riccardo’s side, but it was alright, because that left him the full reign of the Italian captaincy (with no team, but that was beyond the point). Besides, despite his size he was better than most of his German friends because of his club involvement, so that evened out the odds of the game a little.  
  
Back in Italy he had no such advantage – he was only slightly above average at best, and with several of his peers with far superior skills surrounding him, he felt anything but special.  
  
He used to eavesdrop into the conversations between his parents and his coach. “Shows promise”; “not a natural talent”; “good eye for the game”; “needs to work harder if he wants to keep up.”  
  
For every positive comment, he would practice twice as much as before – for every negative one, he would throw himself into practice so hard that it was practically impossible to count all the time he put into it.  
  
His ultimate goal? To be ever the best; to prove his worth to his coach, to his family, and to his friends both in Italy and in Germany. To one day be able to represent his country in the Azzurri blue with his idols by his side.  
  
He threw everything he had into football, never giving a second thought to the doubt that maybe he just was not good enough to become a professional – never once did he think that he would not be allowed to stand next to the likes of Totti, Cannavaro or Buffon (who had just won the U-21 Championship title for Italy).  
  
By the time he recognized that his feelings of infatuation towards his idols differed greatly from the way his teammates admired them, he was already playing for the Atalanta youth team. And when the  _meaning_  of the realization finally sunk in, it was far too late to back off from the path he had chosen for himself.


	2. on sexuality

_Thought life is a joyride_  
  
  
Riccardo received his first kiss at the ripe age of four and a half. Literally received, as he was in no way an active participant in the act.  
  
The girl in question was one year older than he was, and she had blonde pigtails and a light blue dress with white ribbons on it – and as far as Riccardo was concerned, she was absolutely terrifying. After a chase that seemed to go on forever, he had found himself backed into a corner and subsequently at the receiving end of her unwarranted attentions.  
  
The kiss had been wet and sloppy and the experience indescribably unpleasant. Riccardo may have even cried a little.  
  
Later on he has concluded that this childhood trauma may have well been the final straw that turned him off from girls for good. (If there ever was any doubt to begin with, that is.)  
  
  
Riccardo  _gave_  his first kiss in Germany. He was 15 years old and this time there were no chasing, no unwilling participants, and definitely no crying – just two sweaty teenagers after a long game of football and a buttload of raging hormones (no pun intended).  
  
He can still remember the clammy hands all over his body, the salty taste of sweat on Martin’s skin, the inexperienced but no less exciting lips locked on his – and of course the pressure gathering between his legs, begging to be released.  
  
That was all before Martin’s father walked in on them and promptly kicked Riccardo out of the house. Riccardo is pretty sure that the recollection of  _that depraved Italian boy who had tried to lure their sweetheart into sinning_  is still imprinted on Martin’s parents’ minds, too ashamed to actually talk about it.  
  
It had been the last summer he spent at his grandparents’ house in Kiel, too busy with football after that.  
  
(The last he had heard from Martin, he was married with a kid on the way – apparently Riccardo’s lure had not been strong enough.)  
  
  
Since then Riccardo has learned to control his hormones a lot better, and grown more cautious of where he sticks his tongue. In the process he has also grown from an unsure teenager into even more confused adult.  
  
He knows what he wants: he wants to become the best footballer in the world, he wants to represent Italy in major tournaments, and he wants to do it all while not worrying about getting caught in “indecent” acts or hiding his true self from the world. This is where the trouble starts.  
  
Giving up football has never even crossed his mind, not after pouring so much of himself into it. By now the game has become as much of a part of him as his sexuality – maybe even more so.  
  
He  _did_  try to alter himself when he realized there would never be a place for an openly homosexual footballer in Italy (or anywhere else, for that matter).   
  
He had tried dating girls, and when that did not work, he had attempted to suppress his urges altogether. It had actually worked for a while – he is not the flashiest guy around to begin with, so just discreetly pulling himself into background does not warrant any unnecessary attention or suspicion from the people around him.  
  
It was a compromise, but at the time it seemed like a sacrifice worth making.  
  
His transfer to Fiorentina proves just how wrong he was.  
  
He is healthy, virile 20-year-old surrounded by unfamiliar people and settings. Suddenly is not so easy to avert his gaze in the showers, not to react to the tight hugs in the midst of goal-celebrations, to suppress the needs that come to him so naturally.  
  
He takes advantage of the fact that barely anyone knows him in Florence (not yet, anyways) and hits the clubs at the first opportunity he gets.  
  
It cannot hurt to relieve some the pressure bottled up inside him, can it? Just some innocent kissing in the corner of a dance floor or perhaps some flirting over a drink, no strings attached.  
  
He ends up in a scruffy hotel room, on his knees in front a man almost twice his age, and it most definitely is not the kind of innocent fun he had been hoping for.  
  
The severity of his actions reaches his brain only when he is lying wide awake on the soiled sheets, the soft snores of his partner echoing from next to him. The feeling of nausea hits him so suddenly that he has no time to even pull on his clothes before he rushes to the bathroom sink.  
  
Once he has thrown up all the regret, shock and disgust at himself (and possibly the fair amount of alcohol he consumed earlier tonight), he sneaks back to the bedroom and collects his clothes in silence. He slips out of the room without waking the other man.  
  
How could he have been so irresponsible? What if someone had noticed him? What if the man he had been with had recognized him? As far as Riccardo knows, the tabloids might be printing his face for tomorrow’s headlines right at this moment:  _Football Scandal! Serie A Player Pictured Kissing Another Man!_  
  
The thought makes him shudder. Just one fleeting moment of pleasure and his career might well be over before it even started!  
  
The next morning comes with a killer hangover and the kind of soreness he has never experienced before, but there is no scandal. He is safe for now.  
  
This trial teaches him a valuable lesson: he cannot trust anyone, especially not himself. Next time he might not be so lucky – just one slip-up and he could be done for.  
  
He now knows that celibate will never work, not if he cannot trust himself to keep his own urges at bay. Instead, he needs to take all the possible precautions in case anything like this happens again. Make sure no one recognizes him before approaching anyone; have an excuse and an escape plan ready in case something goes wrong anyways; do not drink too much; stay in control of the situation and do not allow public displays of affection.  
  
After practice he adds another mental note on his ever-growing list: always be on top, because poor performance on the pitch cannot be explained with just being distracted every time, and this is the kind of injury that he most definitely would not want to show to the team physicist.


	3. on Cristina

_You’re an angel not asking who I am_  
  
  
He ends up getting involved with Cristina purely by accident.  
  
He is spending the evening at a bar with a few of his teammates when the beautiful brunette approaches him with a request for a dance (and maybe a drink afterwards).  
  
He tries to turn her down on the spot, stuttering and blushing, shocked that any woman would show interest in him in the first place – frankly, he has never even considered the possibility, even though he is supposed to give off the vibe of a straight man.  
  
It is his teammates’ obvious dismay and a frantically whispered “You gotta be gay not to hit that, man!” that make him get up from his stool and go after her. Just a couple of dances with her and he can go back to his mates with his reputation intact, right?  
  
Riccardo considers himself a talented liar – a trait obtained through the years of secrecy and the constant fear of getting caught – but he has never had to use his skills in this kind of situation before. Therefore it is not entirely surprising that he cannot think of a good enough excuse  _not_  to take Cristina home with him at the end of the night, not with his teammates still hovering in the corner of his vision, unashamedly ogling the model’s generous assets.  
  
They end up just sleeping next to each other. Riccardo is grateful that Cristina accepts his excuses of nervousness and too much alcohol without further questions, even though the words seemed empty even to his own ears. At least there was some truth to it: he had been about to have a panic attack by the time they had arrived to his apartment.  
  
Cristina turns out to be pleasant company even after the buzz of alcohol is long gone. After a nice, comfortable breakfast Riccardo actually finds himself wondering whether a fleeting relationship with a woman would be such a bad thing after all.  
  
It would help him to keep his secret, too, if he was reported dating a woman. A beautiful model, none the less.  
  
A quick fling turns into a month and then two, and Riccardo thinks he might actually be able to enjoy it all if not for the physical aspects of the relationship. Cristina is smart and funny and she seems to understand Riccardo in a way none of his male friends do. If he were straight, she would definitely be just his type.  
  
Well, apart from the Playboy pictures, but then again maybe he could learn to understand that too. He does not think he is a particularly jealous type, anyways, although it is hard to say for sure when he has never been in a committed relationship before.  
  
As the things stand, though, he cannot help but feel guilty for taking advantage of her like this.  
  
But Cristina is not stupid (far from it), so it does not take long before she can see right through Riccardo’s defences. She knows he is not in this relationship because he  _wants to_ , perhaps she even knows the real reason behind it.   
  
She stays anyways.  
  
Their relationship turns into one of convenience – they still hug and cuddle and even sleep in the same bed, but it is all platonic, like best friends comforting each other in the absence of something greater. They never talk about it openly; they just keep acting in the way that comes naturally to them.  
  
Riccardo cannot begin to decipher why she is still there. It is not about fame, because a woman like Cristina could get any footballer she wanted with a snap of her fingers. Someone who could satisfy all her needs. Not to mention she is famous enough on her own – she does not need to date a second-choice midfielder like Riccardo just to gain more fame.  
  
Within a year they are living together and giving out interviews as an 'official' couple. On the outside it seems like the perfect match: a gorgeous, intelligent model and the fashionable rising star of Fiorentina, working to build a life together.  
  
She attends Fiorentina’s matches on a regular basis, wearing a jersey with his name and number on it; he visits parties organized by her employers and other important people, giving out interviews when requested. He even agrees to have photo shoots together with his 'lady love.'  
  
They both have other affairs on the side, of course, but at home there is no mention of anyone else. It is one of their silent agreements that hold their arrangement together. They are allowed to spend their nights wherever they want as long as they come back home by the next morning and do not talk about their actions afterwards.  
  
As long as they do not know what the other has been up to, they will not have to lie when asked about it. (Riccardo finds it kind of ironic that they avoid lying at all costs when actually their whole relationship is nothing more than a big fat lie.)  
  
His parents adore Cristina, which makes him feel even worse about deceiving them about his actual preferences. He sidesteps the questions about their possible engagement smoothly by describing how Cristina has decorated their new apartment in Florence and “seriously, you should come and see it yourselves sometime.”  
  
Riccardo hates to think of Cristina as his  _beard_ , but for all ends and purposes, it is exactly what she is. She is the reason he is able to keep on living his double life without raising suspicions. However, she is not just that: he adores her like crazy, and no matter how unusual their arrangement is, he cannot imagine his life without his amazing live-in partner in it anymore.  
  
He cannot even begin to express his gratitude toward her, for not asking anything about his other life; because he knows he could never lie to her if asked directly, not after all this time they have spent together.


	4. on Andrea

_I was lost like you_  
  
  
Riccardo has looked up to Andrea Pirlo ever since he first saw him on the pitch.  
  
Pirlo is everything he has ever aspired to be: calm and collected, creative and talented, a player with fast thinking and exact passes, and even a World Cup victory under his belt.  
  
He reminds Riccardo of all the reasons why he decided to become a footballer in the first place.  
  
People keep telling him that he is similar to Pirlo; that he should aim to play more like the metronome of Milan, to conduct the whole pace of the game from the middle of the field. He listens to them because it is exactly what he  _wants_  to hear – who would not want to hear that they resemble their idols?   
  
He even tries to adjust his game accordingly, but he never quite reaches the heights of Pirlo’s play. Deep down, he knew it would not work long before he is proven correct on the pitch. He is nowhere near the  _l’architetto_ ’s level – Andrea Pirlo is a born talent, a natural playmaker, while Riccardo is mediocre at best: fairly good at everything he does, excels at nothing.  
  
He is reminded of this difference in skill every time the Viola face Milan and he has the privilege to observe the master at his work. Riccardo’s best effort is never quite enough, the older man always a few paces ahead. He begins to believe he will never catch up, will never be good enough to call himself Pirlo’s equal.  
  
The World Cup in South Africa is one of the greatest turning points of Riccardo’s life. There he finally gets to stand out on the field in his Azzurri jersey, to play alongside legends like Cannavaro and Buffon. It is one of his biggest childhood dreams come true, and even though the tournament ends far too soon for all of them and his own performance is far from his best, he knows he should appreciate the opportunity given to him.  
  
But most importantly, for Riccardo the World Cup 2010 is the time when Andrea Pirlo the idol becomes just Andrea.  
  
Andrea does not play in the first two matches due to his injury, leaving Riccardo and De Rossi out there to try and fill the gap that is left in his wake – a task far too huge for either of them, which becomes obvious as soon as the tournament begins.  
  
During the third and final game Andrea substitutes Riccardo during the second half. Riccardo is almost relieved to get off the pitch after the terrible performance he has given. Watching from the sidelines as the 31-year-old playmaker blows a whole new wave of energy into the Italian team is both comforting and frustrating at the same time.  
  
The substitution does not help in the end, and Italy winds up losing the game anyways, effectively eliminating themselves from the next round in the process. The air of disappointment is so thick around them that Riccardo thinks he could touch it if he wanted to.  
  
For the most part, he is angry at himself – had he been just a bit better, the gap between him and Pirlo only a little smaller, then maybe the outcome of the whole tournament would have been different!  
  
He hangs back until his teammates have showered – a force of habit picked up during his first years in Fiorentina – before he slowly undresses and heads in himself. He chooses the booth farthest away from the door, in case someone is still coming in.  
  
He lets warm water run down his back, washing away all the sweat and grime from the game, before he turns the tab again and the water turns freezing cold. He hisses sharply when the spray hits his skin, but he does not move away – his skin goes to goose bumps and his teeth are clattering slightly, but for a moment it feels like the disappointment and anger might be washed away too.  
  
But then it is not enough and Riccardo really feels like crying.  
  
It is at that moment that Andrea decides to walk in. He looks surprised to find Riccardo still there, standing under the freezing spray of water, trembling from the cold, his lips slowly turning blue.  
  
Riccardo has no energy or will to hide his vulnerability at that moment, and he knows Andrea can read all the unguarded feelings right from his face: disappointment, frustration, hurt, fear, loneliness – all brought on by the cold and the loss.  
  
What he does not expect is that Andrea can also see the raw  _need_  in his eyes, hidden so deep under the surface that Riccardo himself sometimes forgets its existence.  
  
Riccardo knows he should stop staring, but Andrea is  _right there_ , just a few meters away from him with only a towel loosely wrapped around his hips, and the Viola captain cannot bring himself to look away.  
  
At that moment, he feels more exposed than he has ever felt in his life.  
  
Andrea is the first one to break the silence.  
  
“Freezing yourself to death won’t change anything,” he tells Riccardo in a rough voice, striding over to the shower booth and reaching past him for the tab. The water turns warm again – it feels almost scalding on his cooled skin.  
  
Andrea’s hand brushes Riccardo’s side when he starts to pull away, and the younger man lets out a soft gasp at the contact. Without the cold water’s numbing touch, his body reacts to their proximity immediately: he shudders involuntarily, and he can feel himself growing half-hard.  
  
He looks away in embarrassment, not wanting to see the disgust in Andrea’s face. Had it been anyone else, Riccardo could have handled it, but not the man he has been looking up to all this time, whom he has been secretly dreaming of for years.  
  
 _Anyone but him…_  
  
Then he feels Andrea’s gentle fingers on his face: tracing his hairline, his cheek, his jaw line, before they move lower, caressing his neck and his chest hesitantly.  
  
Riccardo barely dares to move, afraid his actions might break off whatever hallucination his muddled brain is creating. He turns to look at the man in front of him only when the hand on his chest falters, only inches from his nipple.  
  
Andrea is staring at his own fingers, like contemplating whether to carry on his ministrations. He is completely under the water spray now, too, and the towel still clinging to his hips is soaked, revealing the shape of his own interest underneath. Seeing it makes Riccardo let out the breath he has been holding.  
  
The soft sound catches Andrea’s attention, his intense gaze finally locking with Riccardo’s. It is the kind of look he is used to seeing on the pitch, when the architect analyzes his next move, making his decision in a split of a second without leaving the opponent any time to contemplate their strategies.  
  
Andrea’s fingers slide over his nipple with a newly found resolve, drawing another gasp from the Riccardo’s mouth.  
  
Andrea’s gaze never leaves his eyes as he lifts a finger to his lips, reminding Riccardo of their teammates still loitering around in the dressing room. Riccardo bites his lip and nods carefully to show his understanding. This is not a position they want to get caught in.  
  
Andrea’s face softens, and then his hand is moving downwards on Riccardo’s body, lingering on his stomach for a second before reaching for his erection. Riccardo has to use up all his willpower in order not to make a sound while his whole body bucks against the firm hand.  
  
He does not last long, with Andrea’s hand moving adamantly on his cock, his unwavering gaze never leaving Riccardo’s. Before he knows it, Riccardo is pushing hard against every touch, every tightening grasp, every pump – and then he is coming all over Andrea’s hand, biting his lip so hard he can taste the blood on his tongue.  
  
He is grateful for the water still running down his face and body, because it disguises effectively the tears that have started flowing sometime during Andrea’s ministrations.  
  
“Do you want me to--?” he begins once he has caught his breath, but does not get to finish the sentence before the older man is backing away from him, discarding his wet towel and taking his own shower booth a couple of booths away from Riccardo’s.  
  
“Clean up and go get dressed, will you?” Andrea’s voice is raspy and he avoids Riccardo’s eyes carefully – his still apparent erection is the only proof that Riccardo did not dream up the whole thing.  
  
Confused but not quite ready to argue the point, Riccardo finishes his shower fast and grabs his things to go back to the dressing room without another word.  
  
He spares a glance for Andrea’s soaked towel. On an impulse, he leaves his second towel (the one he normally uses to dry his hair) in the showers just in case.  
  
He feels oddly pleased when Andrea finally emerges back into the dressing room, Riccardo’s towel wrapped snugly around his hips.  
  
  
The team flies back to Italy a couple of days later, and Riccardo has no opportunity to talk to Andrea again before they all continue on to their separate ways. Then all of a sudden he has his hands full with the preseason, and really, what would he say to Andrea anyways?  
  
He tells himself that the shower episode was just a one-time thing, and he should not get his hopes up for anything more. Andrea is  _married_  and has two beautiful children – there is no way he is going to risk all that for something that happened in the spur of the moment.  
  
By the time the season starts, Riccardo has managed to convince himself that there was nothing between them in the first place, and what happened that day was merely a fluke. He promptly ignores how much the thought hurts.  
  
His well-practiced indifference comes crashing down during the first match Fiorentina plays against Milan, when his gaze locks with Andrea’s over the field. The unadulterated  _want_  displayed in his eyes makes Riccardo fumble with the ball, which almost results in Milan’s first goal of the game.  
  
Andrea waits for him outside the dressing rooms after the game, and this time Riccardo does not intend to give him the chance to back away before his own climax.  
  
They stumble into an unused storeroom, where Riccardo pushes Andrea against the wall and drops to his knees in front of him, working frantically on the ties on his trousers. Succeeding in the task, he glances up at Andrea’s face as he pushes down the interfering garments and reaches for his cock.  
  
The look Andrea gives him is one of desire and pleading. And then he throws his head back gasping for air as Riccardo leans in to slowly lick the tip of his erection.  
  
It is all fast and urgent after that: Riccardo just concentrates on giving Andrea all the pleasure he possibly can, alternating between hard sucking and slower, deliberate licks, not caring that the man is grasping his hair so tight that his scalp will be tender for days afterwards.  
  
Andrea lets out an audible, shaky sigh as he comes into Riccardo’s mouth only a few moments later, gripping his hair like his life depends on it. The younger man gags a little, unable to resist the reflex, and a bit of come slips from the corner of his mouth.  
  
Andrea slides down the wall until they are sitting face to face. He reaches out his hand to gently wipe away the stain on Riccardo’s face.   
  
He then finishes Riccardo off with his hands, with the Viola captain sitting half-astride in his lap, hiding his breathy moans against Andrea’s neck as he reaches his climax.  
  
  
It is how they start, and it is also how they carry on: stolen looks across the pitch, hurried blowjobs in vacated dressing rooms, fumbled handjobs in cars with tinted windows, and desperate fucking in scruffy hotel rooms booked on false names.  
  
They never plan anything beforehand, and there is no regular schedule to their arrangement – there are periods when they meet up several times a week, while other times they can spend months without meeting even once.  
  
But there is always a next time, and Riccardo finds himself enjoying this new steady aspect of his life.


	5. on rules

_I’m falling into something I’m scared_  
  
  
Riccardo has made himself several rules over the years in order to have a sense of control over his life while keeping all his secrets away from the public eye. The rules are of varying importance, some of them merely mental notes while others are essential to protect his very person.  
  
The three most important rules are pretty much self-explanatory, at least to him: do not get caught, do not get involved, and do  _not_  fall in love.  
  
Not getting caught is obviously the culmination of all his rules, something that just cannot happen, period. Love and involvement, on the other hand, are matters of control and self-preservation. Relationships could never work in a situation like his, and the inevitable break-up would put everything he has worked for in jeopardy. Cristina is the only exception to this rule, but then again their relationship is hardly the kind that will end in tears and unnecessary revelations. (He hopes.)  
  
The case of love is even more complicated: it would make Riccardo drop his guard, do stupid things against his better judgement, and give up the control of his life to someone else. Not to mention it would still carry all the risks of a messy break-up – the consequences could actually be more severe than with a shallower relationship.  
  
All in all, not worth it. Not when he has so much at stake.  
  
With Andrea the foundations of his rules have started to waver threateningly, but Riccardo likes to think he still has everything under control.  
  
They meet up semi-regularly, but it is never premeditated, and by the end of it they go back to their respective families – or at least Andrea does, Riccardo is not quite sure whether Cristina counts as family in his case. The point is that their arrangement cannot count as involvement when there are no commitments whatsoever between them.  
  
He does not even want to touch the subject of  _love_  when it comes to Andrea.  
  
In addition, there are a handful of additional rules between the two of them. Or actually, they are not rules per se: they are merely habits they have fallen into in the course of their acquaintance, and after months of secret encounters, neither of them dares to address them aloud anymore.  
  
They do not kiss – this became obvious during one of their earliest meetings, when Riccardo tried to seek out Andrea’s lips only to have the man duck away from his reach. He has not tried again, content with what he can get.  
  
They never leave marks where other people can see them. Common sense, really, but surprisingly hard to follow in practice. The closest they have come to breaking this rule was the bite-mark on Riccardo’s collar bone from the time Andrea fucked him for the first time. (Ironically enough, it was also the first time Riccardo broke his own no-bottoming rule and never even considered going back to it afterwards.)  
  
The Fiorentina jersey fortunately covered the angry bruise, so Riccardo only had to be careful of what to wear on his free time for a couple of weeks.  
  
(When a few of his teammates spotted the mark anyways, they chalked it up to Cristina’s ferocious side: “Wish  _I_  had a girl like that, must be a wildcat in the sack too, huh?”)  
  
Most importantly, they never linger after having sex, too much in a hurry to get back to their families or teammates; too worried of raising suspicions if they stay away for too long.  
  
But as the time passes, they begin to slip, the lines between right and wrong blurring in their minds. There are even moments when Riccardo simply forgets that there are any rules in the first place.  
  
One of those moments occurs a year into their arrangement, in Riccardo’s hotel room in Bari after the friendly match between Italy and Spain.  
  
Riccardo is still ecstatic over his first international goal, and Andrea has been indulging his whims all day long: the longer-than-necessary hug after the goal, inconspicuous handholding in the midst of the victory celebrations, a hand on his thigh during the dinner right under the noses of their teammates and coaches.  
  
They slipped away from the restaurant early, most of the Azzurri squad too busy with their loud banter to even notice.  
  
Now Riccardo is lying on his bed, his legs spread and two of Andrea’s slicked fingers moving inside him. The feeling is amazing: the buzz of victory still pulsing through his veins (never mind it was just an exhibition game), Andrea on top of him, stretching his insides deliberately slowly, his other hand caressing the back of Riccardo’s neck.  
  
Their eyes meet briefly, and there are no pretences at that moment, only the pleasure and caring and  _happiness_. Riccardo cannot help but laugh out loud in joy, before the sound transforms into a guttural moan as Andrea’s fingers find his prostate.  
  
“Kiss me?” he whispers between his gasps, and it comes out half a command, half a request.  
  
Andrea halts his actions, staring into Riccardo’s pleading eyes with an undecipherable look. For a second fear clenches Riccardo’s insides – maybe he has overstepped some invisible boundary and now Andrea is going to leave and it is all going to be over between them and could he please please _please_  just take the words back right now.  
  
Then Andrea is kissing him with such fervour that it leaves no doubt in Riccardo’s mind that this is what they both want – everything Andrea had ever needed was the permission.  
  
Distracted with the moist lips on his, Riccardo barely notices when Andrea retracts his fingers. He comes back to his senses briefly when the older man pauses his kisses to roll the condom on his cock – and then all Riccardo can do is to try and  _keep on breathing_  as Andrea slowly pushes himself in.  
  
He halts his movement once he is buried all the way inside, his worried eyes searching for signs of discomfort on Riccardo’s face.  
  
But the only discomfort Riccardo is feeling is coming from the lack of movement – he just needs Andrea to get on with it and  _take him_. He almost whines, pushing himself against the cock inside him, wrapping his long legs around Andrea insistently.  
  
Andrea answers by kissing him again before he starts moving in deliberate, unhurried thrusts. After a few pushes he hits Riccardo’s prostate again, which effectively reduces the Viola player into a trembling, incoherent mess, clinging to Andrea like he never wants to let go. (Perhaps he does not.)  
  
Their rhythm picks up as both of them start nearing their release. Andrea slips his hand between their bodies and brings Riccardo over the edge with a couple of firm strokes on his aching cock. He follows with his own climax only moments later, continuing his hard thrusts until they are both left completely drained but satisfied.  
  
They stay in bed afterwards, their legs entangled and hands intertwined. They share languid, leisurely kisses, all the earlier rush and anxiety gone, and Andrea’s hand – the one not holding Riccardo’s – is tracing odd patterns on his companion’s belly absent-mindedly.  
  
When Riccardo starts getting hard again, the playmaker huffs in feigned exasperation.  
  
“You insatiable bastard,” he whispers against Riccardo’s neck, but the laughter in his voice reveals his act right away. Even as he speaks, he reaches his hand lower and grabs for the half-hard cock, making Riccardo let out a sound that is something between a giggle and a moan.  
  
“Don’t hear you complaining,” he tells Andrea softly, before the man’s strokes make him lose his ability to speak once again, and he just bucks into the calloused hand caressing him to his second orgasm of the night.  
  
They have broken about a dozen of their own rules in the course of the night: the kissing, the lingering, the bite-marks... (There is one on Andrea’s neck, just below his ear, where Riccardo bit him while attempting to muffle his sounds during his first climax. Andrea winds up getting in trouble with his wife because of it.)  
  
It all feels an awfully lot like something a real couple would do, and Riccardo thinks he could get used to it.  
  
Andrea still leaves once they are finished, opting to sleep in his own room even though his family is safely back in Milan, preparing for their upcoming move to Turin.  
  
  
Andrea transfers to Juventus, and for a while Riccardo does not mind that his own negotiations with Milan did not work out after all. Then he realizes that the distance between them has grown even longer with Andrea’s move – and that the drive from Milan to Turin would not, in fact, have been that long at all.  
  
He refuses to acknowledge the implications this realization holds, and braces himself for another year of long distance relationship. (Although it is  _not_ really a relationship, Riccardo has to remind himself.)  
  
  
Andrea’s kisses are like his playmaking: full of twists and purpose and burning passion, and you never know what to expect from him next. Just when you think you have figured out a pattern, he does something completely unexpected, just a small adjustment to his approach and the whole feel of the kiss changes.  
  
Riccardo thinks he could come just by kissing Andrea.  
  
He actually does, once, and it is utterly embarrassing and extremely exciting at the same time. He blames it on all the built-up tension caused by the long break since their last encounter. (There had been some unfortunate injuries on both their part and then all other inconveniences created by the distance.)  
  
Only later does he realize that his excuse is invalid: there is no commitments between them, and thus he has no reason  _not_  to have sex with other people when Andrea is unavailable.  
  
What scares him the most is that he feels absolutely no desire to act on this revelation.  
  
After two days of listening to his guilty conscience practically screaming at him for breaking his own rules, Riccardo finally decides that maybe he can admit to being just a little committed.  
  
  
Their encounters grow even fewer and farther between, and the hundreds of kilometres separating Florence from Turin prove to be excruciatingly long as the season progresses.  
  
Nevertheless, the meetings they do manage are as comfortable as ever – they do not need to tell each other what they want, because they know it anyways, like there is some kind of a mental connection between them.  
  
They even have dinner together at one occasion, at Andrea’s house after a match in Turin when his wife and kids are away visiting relatives. Once they are finished with the food, they have sex on the living room couch (and on the coffee table) – the bed strictly off-limits – before Riccardo returns to his hotel for the night.  
  
At home, Cristina’s homemade meal does not taste even half as good as Andrea’s cooking did, even though the spaghetti was a little soggy and the wine did not compliment the overall flavour at all. (Apparently Deborah is the one doing most of the cooking in the Pirlo household.)  
  
  
After skirting around his self-imposed rules for almost two years straight, markedly ignoring the ones he has broken in the process, Riccardo finally ends up stepping over the boundary that has been keeping their arrangement from falling apart until now.  
  
It is after that horrible,  _horrible_  game between Fiorentina and Juventus, where everything Riccardo tries to do seems to go wrong. The 0–5 loss serves merely to prove the point that the Viola team is in a terrible shape – that whatever Riccardo is doing is terrible.  
  
He almost breaks down when Andrea comes to hug him after the match, a comforting word and awaiting arms ready even in the midst of his own team’s celebration.  
  
Riccardo clings to him like it is the only thing keeping him from falling apart right then and there (and it really is), and Andrea lets him, not minding the other players mingling around them or the cameras flashing in the sidelines, tomorrow’s headlines already in the making.  
  
Later on, Andrea fucks him hard into the mattress in a shady hotel room, while Riccardo muffles his furious cries and sniffles into the soft pillows under him, grasping for the bed sheets until they are practically pulled off the bed.  
  
It is a delicious distraction, a reminder that no matter how shitty his performance on the pitch is, Andrea still wants him. There is always the next season, and the Euros are coming up in a few months, and his newly-started negotiations with Milan are going well, and maybe by next autumn there will be only a couple hours’ ride between them, and  _oh yes please harder_!  
  
The words slip out from his lips without his permission, as he sits on the bed among the ruffled sheets and watches Andrea pull on his clothes, getting ready to leave.  
  
“Please stay?”  
  
 _I don’t want to be alone right now._  
  
The look Andrea levels at him is mixed, like he is fighting two conflicting feelings inside of him. Riccardo knows he is at the losing end even before the look turns apologetic. (Again, he is the one always losing.)  
  
“I love my wife,” Andrea tells him, his voice firm but eyes swarming with remorse.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he adds almost inaudibly, not meeting Riccardo’s eyes again as he moves to the doors and slips out quietly, leaving the younger man alone with his haunting thoughts.  
  
As the door closes, the tears fall from his eyes again, but this time they are not in any way connected to football. And as Riccardo lifts his fingers to wipe away the telltale wetness on his cheek, he finally understands that he has been breaking his most important rule all along.


	6. on teammates

_They’re all surrounding me and I feel lonely_  
  
  
When he reads Prandelli’s foreword in the book on homosexuality in sports, Riccardo is fairly sure the coach is directing the words at him personally.   
  
Cesare is one of the few people that know him,  _really_  know him – the one who gave him the chance to show what he is made of first in Viola, then in Azzurri even after the catastrophic World Cup 2010 – but until now Riccardo never thought the coach’s insight would reach even his most intimate secrets.  
  
He wants to believe Cesare’s words, he really does, but in the end he cannot help but agree with Di Natale when the striker tells the press he thinks the coach is wrong: Italy is not ready for an openly homosexual player, maybe never will be, and a few open-minded people in high places cannot do anything to change that.  
  
And even if his teammates and fans were ready to face the truth, Riccardo is not sure whether he himself is. What good would some support do if he still ends up a centre of attention – a circus animal whose performance would only be evaluated in terms of his sexuality? Good enough for a gay guy, yeah, but no point of comparing him to the  _real_  players around him.  
  
Riccardo has not spoken with Andrea after that fateful night in March, and he thinks not for the first time that maybe he should try calling him. There is no one else Riccardo can talk to about his sexuality, after all.  
  
They have never called each other before; there has been no reason for it.  
  
He does not call, effectively putting off their inevitable encounter for a while longer.  
  
He leafs through the rest of the book in his free time – it is the least he can do, being one of those closeted players the book is talking about – but soon dismisses it as utterly ridiculous. No point in wishful thinking when the reality is just waiting for a chance to screw him over.  
  
Cecchi Paone’s own comments to the press are even more laughable: two homosexuals and one bisexual on the national team, and Riccardo is one of the few explicitly specified as  _not gay_? As insistent as the guy seems to be to out all the homosexual players in the world, Riccardo cannot help but think that he is just talk with no actual idea of what he is doing.  
  
He also doubts that any of his teammates would be stupid enough to reveal anything to a scandal-prone reporter like Cecchi Paone, which in itself takes away some of the credibility of his claims.  
  
  
The training camps and practice matches for the EURO 2012 come around too soon for his liking. The tournament is something he has looked forward to ever since the qualifying rounds, but now, after all that has happened, training with the national team is anything but enjoyable.  
  
He is terribly aware of Andrea’s close proximity right from the beginning. Their eyes meet during tactical meetings; they exchange a few words on the way to the pitch; they even partner up at the practice drills because they are used to playing in the similar position.  
  
The feelings between them are buried away so deep that it actually makes it harder to ignore their existence – the conspicuous lack of  _something_  that keeps Riccardo constantly on the edge.  
  
He thinks can handle it: he pours all his attention to football, because this tournament is his big chance to prove that he is worth the responsibility, that his upcoming transfer to Milan is well-deserved even after his lacklustre of a season.  
  
He does not get to play in the first match against Spain. Instead, he watches from the bench while Andrea shines on the pitch and the old feelings of insufficiency come crashing back, his earlier self-assurances all but forgotten.  
  
  
The sexuality discussion follows the team even in Poland, and Cassano is the unfortunate one to face the reporters’ questions on Cecchi Paone’s revelations just a day before their next match. In hindsight, Prandelli may have been better off sending someone else to that particular press conference – someone with the ability to actually consider his words before opening his mouth.  
  
The uproar that follows the controversial statement is nothing the experienced striker has not faced before, prone to misspeaking as he is, but the commotion still interrupts their preparation for the upcoming game.  
  
It is not worth getting upset over it, Riccardo tells himself. He has heard much worse before, and no matter how derogatory and ignorant Cassano’s words were, Riccardo knows that the comments reflect the thoughts of the majority of footballers all over Europe, even though they may not be stupid enough to say anything out loud.  
  
But it is not just the careless statement to the reporters: Cassano keeps bringing it up, apparently surprised about the semi-scandal he has caused without meaning to, and maybe over Cecchi Paone’s claims as well.  
  
Riccardo does his best to ignore the tactless jokes and offhand comments, and the fag this and fag that, until it just becomes too much to handle.  
  
It is after the disappointing draw with Croatia (Riccardo actually got to play this time) and his soon-to-be Milan teammate is talking about how  _those Croats were such sissies_ , and  _really, how can anyone say we’re the faggots with opponents like that_ , and suddenly Riccardo is seeing red.  
  
“Shut up,” he says in a low voice from his seat in the corner of their dressing room. Surprisingly Cassano hears him over his own ruckus and turns around to look at him incredulously.  
  
“What the hell did you just say to me?” His glare is challenging, like daring Riccardo to speak up again.  
  
Their teammates are all watching them now, interested to hear what the usually so quiet Viola player will say to their resident hothead.  
  
“I told you to  _shut up_  – give the gay jokes a rest.” Riccardo gets up as he speaks, towering over his shorter teammate. He does not want to raise his voice, well-aware of the attention he is drawing to himself already. But it is too late to back down now, so he clings to the remains of his calmness and stands his ground, glaring down at Cassano.  
  
“Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?” Cassano is practically in his face now, not at all intimidated by the height difference. His eyes are blazing in anticipation of the fight, ready vent out all his frustration over the match they should have won.  
  
“I don’t need to be anyone special to tell  _you_  off. You’ve been an intolerable prick ever since that press conf. The jokes are getting old; they’re insulting; they’re homophobic; they show some extremely bad taste. And I’m telling you to shut up with them.”  
  
Riccardo knows he is threading on a terribly thin ice now, every fibre of his body practically screaming at him to stop before he says something he cannot take back. Minimize the damage before it is too late.  
  
Cassano is looking at him with barely contained rage, not about to let some inexperienced second-choice midfielder tell him off.  
  
“What’re you, a faggot yourself? Bet it was you who’s been brawling his guts out to that Cecchi bastard!” He is grinning as he says this, sure of his victory by now. He obviously has no idea how close to home his words just hit.  
  
It only now occurs to Riccardo that this argument might well be the end of his career both in the national team and in Milan. Still, he takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the impact he is about to take.  
  
“So what if I am? It’s not your problem, you said it yourself,” he answers quietly, his voice cracking just a little bit. The rational part of his brain is telling him to shut the fuck up, to say that he is merely joking, and  _really, you think I could’ve hidden it for this long?_  
  
Instead, he carries on, a challenge in his eyes.  
  
“Still, you think I’m that stupid? That I’d tell anything about myself to that man? Stop projecting your own idiocy on others,” he almost spits out the last words, well past caring of the consequences of his actions by now. He is totally fucked no matter what he says next, anyways.  
  
Cassano takes a step back from him, suddenly much less insistent on getting in his personal space. Riccardo follows him by stepping forward, enjoying the feeling of having the upper hand (no matter how momentarily).  
  
“What, you’re afraid of me now? Scared of getting infected?” He is all but shouting by now, years of hiding and fear and frustration bubbling to the surface all at once. It is the anger speaking, and some remote part of his brain is begging for someone to step in before he winds up doing anything more drastic.  
  
His gaze flickers toward Andrea like automatically, hoping he would say something,  _anything_ , but at the same time knowing that the hope is futile.  
  
Andrea avoids his eyes pointedly.  
  
Cassano pushes at his shoulder hard, creating a semblance of distance between them.  
  
“Get away from me, fag!” he hisses angrily, holding his ground even though he is practically trembling with the suppressed urge to bolt to the other side of the room. The panic flashing in his eyes makes Riccardo laugh humourlessly.  
  
“You really think I’m gonna jump you now, in front of everyone?”  
  
It is their fearless captain who finally intercepts the argument before anything gets too out of hand. He steps into the space between them and tells Cassano to  _sit the fuck down_  with all his authority. His hand is on Riccardo’s shoulder and he tells him to let it go, that it is alright, everything will be alright.  
  
Buffon’s calm, firm voice makes his anger subside almost immediately, and Riccardo can feel himself calming down. Then his own actions start sinking in and he just wants to disappear right then and there, panic clenching at his insides.  
  
He shakes off the hand on his shoulder and makes a fast work of collecting his things before he escapes the curious gazes of his teammates out of the dressing room and into the bus waiting for them outside.  
  
He pointedly ignores the players slowly trickling in after him, even when Marchisio pats his shoulder as he passes him and when De Rossi ruffles his hair and tells him to keep his chin up.  
  
It kind of makes him feel better, though, to know he is not completely shunned out of the team.  
  
  
He still makes his escape the moment they reach the hotel, not ready to face Cristina (who probably has made her way back to their room by now) or any of his teammates just yet.  
  
He finds a quiet corner in a park close to the hotel, where he sits in the shade of a large tree with his knees pulled to his chest and face hidden in his crossed arms, almost completely out of sight behind the tree branches and bushes around him.  
  
Andrea finds him there half an hour later. He does not say a word, merely sits next to Riccardo and presses his hand on the small of his back. The gesture is so familiar (so  _Andrea_ ) that Riccardo finds himself unconsciously pressing up against him.  
  
“I really fucked up, didn’t I?” he whispers bitterly, not sure whether he is talking about Cassano or Andrea himself. Probably both. He does not cry, mostly he just feels numb.  
  
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, it was only natural to react that way back there,” Andrea tells him after a moment of consideration, caressing his back gently as he speaks.  
  
“ _You_  didn’t say anything,” Riccardo points out testily, “I was all alone back there.” His tone is not accusing, he is merely stating a fact.  
  
“I’m not ready for something like that,” Andrea answers quietly, no excuses or explanations.  
  
 _Neither am I_ , Riccardo wants to scream, but instead he presses himself closer to the other man and slips his hand tentatively on Andrea’s thigh, running his fingers up and down the firm muscle there.  
  
Andrea does not pull back; on the contrary, he wraps his arm around Riccardo’s waist in encouraging gesture.  
  
“The guys, they must be talking some serious shit about me,” Riccardo quips humourlessly as he presses his hand more firmly on Andrea’s leg, his breath playing in the hair curling at the man’s neck. He wants to kiss Andrea so badly, but the fear of getting caught is still there despite their compromising position or his reckless actions earlier.  
  
“Most of them don’t care, really, and even the ones who do aren’t stupid enough to say anything about it in fear of Gigi’s wrath,” Andrea answers him, and he sounds so sure that it does not even occur to Riccardo to doubt his words, “You’re gonna be fine.”  
  
Andrea makes the decision for him then, and pulls him into a gentle kiss with only a hint of tongue slipped in at the end. Somehow it feels much more intimate than all their sexual encounters until now.  
  
“I’ve missed this,” Andrea whispers, his lips only inches away from Riccardo’s, before he catches his lower lip in a soft nibble again.  
  
 _I’ve missed you._  
  
The words are not voiced, but they float around them nonetheless.  
  
They stay there for a while longer, exchanging soft, languid kisses in the shadow of the large tree, hidden from the prying eyes.  
  
They make their way back to the hotel in comfortable silence; close enough to feel the warmth radiating from each others’ bodies, but far enough not to touch even by accident. They separate at the lobby, both making their ways to their hotel rooms and respective partners waiting for them.  
  
  
Riccardo misses the match against Ireland, but he gets to start all the subsequent games in Thiago’s place. (He thinks it might be Cesare’s way of saying he is proud of him.)  
  
His teammates do not act any differently around him, for the most part, and even Cassano keeps his mouth shut and only throws suspicious glances at Riccardo’s direction every now and then.  
  
They beat England in penalties (even with Riccardo’s failed attempt haunting them); they win Germany fair and square (with Riccardo’s unquestionable contribution, for which he receives well-deserved praise from his teammates); and even though the final against Spain turns out a total fiasco, they can all be proud of what they have accomplished in this tournament.  
  
After the final, Andrea corners Riccardo in the empty shower room, and it is a bittersweet reminder of South Africa two years ago, except this time there are no cold showers or soaked towels, just hungry kisses and desperate hands on naked skin.  
  
Andrea still uses the towel Riccardo left for him two years ago, and the nostalgia makes the younger man giggle just a little.  
  
Back then he had no idea what was happening between them, and it had been absolutely terrifying – now, he still has no idea what is going to happen, but whatever it is, he has no reason to be afraid, because his teammates  _know_  about him and surprisingly it is not the end of the world.


	7. on love

_Without you I am all right_  
  
  
Riccardo has never been the one to believe in unconditional, undying notion of love. To him, romantic love means merely an excess of chemicals in the brain, an attachment that has grown far beyond mere friendship and sexual attraction.  
  
As far a he is concerned, it is a handicap, but with Andrea he has also found out that it is unavoidable, no matter how well he knows the disadvantages.  
  
They fly back to Italy a day after the final and the obligatory meetings with the representatives of state and the Federation keep them busy for a couple days more.  
  
The excited reception is enough to assure them that maybe the silver medals are not so bad after all.  
  
And then it is finally time for the long-awaited holiday before the preseason starts. Riccardo and Cristina spend the first few days going back and forth between Florence and Milan, moving their personal things, furnishing their new apartment and organizing other necessities for the upcoming move.  
  
Once everything is settled, they catch the flight to Africa and head to the roundtrip they have planned months beforehand. They proceed to act like everyday tourists, a happy couple on the move, visiting famous destinations, taking sickeningly cute pictures of themselves (and posting them all over the Internet to make other people jealous), having a great time in general and forgetting all about their hectic lives back in Italy.  
  
Except forgetting is really not that easy, because Riccardo cannot stop thinking about Andrea and the odd moments of intimacy they managed to have for themselves during the tournament and its aftermath.  
  
It is like some invisible dam has finally broken inside of him – with him coming out to his teammates and engaging in semi-public displays of affection with Andrea that one night in the park (it does not matter that nobody saw them: the risk was still there) – and Riccardo can finally allow himself to actually _feel_.  
  
However, along with those intoxicating feelings comes also the terrible guilt: of lying, of taking advantage of Cristina, of sneaking around with Andrea behind his wife’s back.  
  
Riccardo is tired of lying.  
  
It is the reason why he confronts Cristina on the night before their scheduled departure from Seychelles and tells her he cannot take her with him to Milan, that it would not feel right.  
  
Something akin to shock flashes in her eyes, but she keeps her cool, not prone to dramatics like so many of her colleagues in the modelling world. Riccardo is grateful for it – it is one of the features that make him love her so much.   
  
(It is not the kind of love that would be enough to carry them any further.)  
  
Her answer is not an accusation, just a concerned inquiry: “It has never felt completely right; you know it as well as I do. So what’s changed now?”  
  
It is the first time either of them has dared to address the peculiar nature of their relationship, and even though both of them have been very much aware of it all these years, hearing the words spoken out loud makes it all seem more real all of a sudden.  
  
And Riccardo is ready to tell her the truth, because she is finally asking for it.  
  
“I’m in love,” he tells her, and those little words (and yet so big) are the ones that snap the remaining ties still holding them together, and there is no going back anymore.  
  
Cristina understands, like she always has, and pulls Riccardo into a hug, kissing his brow for the one last time. Her whispered  _“Be happy”_  settles somewhere deep inside of him, spreading warmth all over his body.  
  
Back in Italy, Riccardo moves to his new apartment in Milan alone, while Cristina stays in their old place in Florence. When everything is already said and done, breaking up is actually a fairly simple affair.  
  
  
The ride from Milan to Turin really is short, especially when the only point of comparison is the tedious trips all the way from Florence.  
  
Still, by the time Riccardo rings Andrea’s doorbell, it is pitch dark and probably past Niccolò and Angela’s bedtime.  
  
The lateness is partly because he spent half a day pacing around in his apartment before he decided that yes, he absolutely had to see Andrea – and partly because he spent hours after hours driving the streets of Turin before he had the courage to actually approach the Pirlo residence.  
  
But he is here now, and that is all that matters.  
  
Deborah answers the door, visibly surprised to find Riccardo standing on their doorstep. They have met before during the international tournaments, of course, but she has never been aware of the close relationship Riccardo has with her husband. (Obviously.)  
  
However, standing face to face with her like this makes Riccardo’s insides clench with guilt and he fights down the terrible urge to run away.  
  
“I need to talk to Andrea,” he says instead, meeting her eyes with the most innocent look he can muster, “Please?”  
  
The suspicion is evident in her eyes, although she seems to be unsure whether it is warranted or not. (Riccardo holds his breath, determined not to reveal anything of importance.)  
  
“He’s putting the kids to bed,” she answers at last, “It might take a while – they’ve been acting restless all evening.”  
  
“It’s alright, I can wait,” he says, glad he is able to keep his voice steady even though the reminder of Andrea’s children releases a new bout of guilt running through him. A small voice in his head is berating him for coming at all, but he suppresses it with practiced ease and steps into the brightly-lit lobby as Deborah motions him inside.  
  
He glances toward the living room, at the couch where Andrea fucked him less than half a year ago. The memory sends shivers down his spine, and he opts to wait in the lobby instead.  
  
The look of shock on Andrea’s face when he emerges some fifteen minutes later is something Riccardo could expect – he has never visited Andrea like this, uninvited and with no other reason to be in town – and he does not let it faze him.  
  
“I need to talk to you. In private,” he offers the only explanation he has, looking pointedly towards the kitchen where they can hear Deborah moving around.  
  
Andrea does not argue; he barely grabs his coat from the hanger and tells his wife they are going to be just outside. The familiar kiss he presses in her hair makes something ugly crawl under Riccardo’s skin – he has never felt jealousy before, not like this, but he cannot think of anything else this could be.  
  
They walk out to the dark yard, out of sight from the bright windows. Riccardo sits on a swing too small for his tall frame, his legs folded under the seat carefully.  
  
Andrea is looking at him with worry written all over his face, which becomes apparent as Riccardo’s eyes adjust gradually to the darkness around them. Then Andrea seems to make up his mind and he glances around to make sure they really are alone before he leans down to press a chaste kiss on Riccardo’s lips.  
  
It comes from an unfamiliar angle – usually it is Riccardo who has the advantage of height – but the feel of Andrea’s lips on his is enough to make Riccardo forget his earlier jealousy. After all, it is  _him_  Andrea kisses straight on the mouth, despite his wife just inside the house.  
  
“Hi,” Andrea simply says when he pulls back, his fingers lingering on Riccardo’s cheek for a while longer as the younger man echoes his greeting quietly.  
  
“So, what’s wrong?” Andrea asks after he has relocated himself a respectable distance away.  
  
Faced with the question he thought he was ready for, Riccardo suddenly finds it much harder to speak the things that have been occupying his mind since he returned from Africa.  
  
“I broke up with Cristina,” he manages to get out, and Andrea’s shoulders tense visibly at the words, “I told her I’m in love with you.”  
  
There, he said it, and there is no place to hide anymore. No more lies or things left unsaid, not to Andrea. He is taking a leap into unknown with nothing to ease his fall, and it is all kinds of thrilling and terrifying at the same time.  
  
It is all up to Andrea now, and Riccardo cannot help but let a tiny spark of hope ignite inside of him, even though he is afraid he knows the answer already.  
  
“You don’t mean--” Andrea begins, his voice tight and unsure like it has never been before, and Riccardo interrupts him with a newly-found resolve before he can finish.  
  
“I’m not going to lie anymore.”  
  
This leaves Andrea speechless – he searches Riccardo’s face for some kind of answers; for just  _something_  that would ease the message the younger man is conveying to him loud and clear in between his words.  
  
After a long moment of silence, Andrea finally licks his drying lips and says the words Riccardo has been dreading to hear all along.  
  
“I could never leave my family.”  
  
The last rays of hope are shut out with that sentence, like a door slammed into his face.  
  
Riccardo swallows hard, doing his best not to let the tears fall from his eyes. Even though he had known what to expect, it does not make hearing it hurt any less.  
  
“I know,” he answers with only a slight tremble in his voice, and it is not a lie.  
  
“It’s alright,” he adds when he is sure his voice is back under control, “I can live without you.”  
  
 _But I don’t want to!_  The declaration gets stuck at his tongue and suddenly he is reduced back to speaking only half-truths. He hopes Andrea knows his sentiments even if he cannot find the right words to express them.  
  
It has always been Riccardo asking for more and Andrea giving in to him, right from the very first time in the steamy shower room in South Africa. Riccardo cannot bring himself to ask for anything more, especially not something this big.  
  
One half of him is scared of the inevitable rejection; the other, much smaller part, is terrified that Andrea would actually give in to his request once more, and he would have a broken family on his conscience for the rest of his life. (It would probably end up breaking them up sooner or later, too.)  
  
So he says nothing and just accepts Andrea’s decision without pressuring him.  
  
“Can’t we just stay the way we’ve been until now? Does it have to be either or?”   
  
There is such desperation in Andrea’s voice that Riccardo almost yields. It has worked for them all this while, so why would it not work from now on as well?  
  
But Riccardo knows it is not an option anymore – everything has changed in the last few months, and there is no way he could ever be satisfied with just stolen kisses and rushed meetings again, not with the feelings he has finally allowed himself to feel.  
  
What he wants now is to have Andrea all to himself; for him to stay the whole night (and the day too); to be able to share his life with him. And most importantly, he does not want to live a lie anymore – no, he does not intend to tell the whole world his secrets; a handful of people he could trust with all he has would be more than enough.  
  
But he is left chasing after his dreams alone once again, because Andrea does not share his sentiments – to him, Riccardo will  _always_  come only second after his family.  
  
Riccardo can handle it, because he has no choice. He will still have his other ambitions to fulfil: he can still step up and surpass Andrea on the pitch. For once he actually believes it might be possible.  
  
Andrea pulls Riccardo into one final kiss after walking him back to his car. This time it is hard and bruising and full of regrets, and the intensity of it makes Riccardo want to cry all over again.  
  
He is well aware that he is clinging to the last straws to keep himself from drowning into his own heartache.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Andrea whispers as he pulls back reluctantly, his breath laboured and eyes glittering with unshed tears. The apology keeps echoing in Riccardo’s ears all the way back to Milan. It does not ease the pain in the least.  
  
  
It is how they end, and it is a shitty ending for a story like theirs, but this is life and there are no such things as fairytale endings in real life.  
  
Riccardo will cry a thousand tears in the privacy of his new apartment, furnished by Cristina and far too big for only one person. He will fight the terrible urge to reach out to Andrea whenever they face each other on the pitch. He will also blame himself for not taking what he was offered, but deep down, he will know that he made the right choice.  
  
And even though he cannot forget, never forget, he will grow accustomed to the constant yearning until it is nothing but a dull ache somewhere deep within; until he is ready to move on.  
  
He will be alright, he can live without Andrea, because it is the last thing he promised him – and he does not want his last memory of their relationship to become a lie.


	8. Epilogue - on Riccardo

_My heart is all burned  
_  
  
 _I can live without you._  
  
Those five words have become like a mantra which Andrea keeps repeating in his head whenever he needs to fight down the instinctive urge to hold Riccardo in his arms again. He keeps hoping against hope that one day the sentence will be as truthful for him as it was for the younger man in the darkness of his yard that night back in July.  
  
Riccardo is flourishing in Milan, taking a command of the midfield with a new kind of confidence in himself and his abilities. He is practically shining out there, and if Andrea thought him beautiful before, now he is absolutely breathtaking.  
  
Andrea has never  _needed_  anything as much as he needs Riccardo right now, but at the same time he knows he will never be able to give him everything he asks for – everything he deserves.  
  
Andrea is a coward, nowhere near as brave as the young man fulfilling one of his childhood dreams as he plays for the  _Rossoneri_.   
  
(Andrea almost wishes he never left for Juventus, because while playing on the same side as Riccardo is every bit as distracting as playing against him, the mistakes his distraction causes would be only half as fatal if he had Riccardo there to clean up after him.)  
  
“Better watch your back: Riccardo’s improving in leaps,” Gigi tells him with a mischievous glint in his eyes during a game between Juve and Milan, “He’s gonna surpass you before you know it if you’re not careful.”  
  
“He already has,” Andrea retorts, his gaze still fixed on Riccardo goofing off with his new teammates, “In every way that matters, at least.”  
  
Their eyes meet over the pitch, and the brief flash of desire in Riccardo’s eyes is more than enough to make Andrea’s heart skip a beat. They retract their eyes at the same time.  
  
Andrea is not stupid, and Riccardo has never been a particularly good liar if you know what to look for as well as Andrea does.   
  
He knows Riccardo would be back in his arms in no time if he just asked for it, and everything would be just like it was before. They could even be happy with what they have for a while. But eventually they would have to face the same question that ended their relationship in the first place, and Andrea would wind up hurting Riccardo again, because it is the only path he has left for himself.  
  
He treasures his children more than anything in the world, in a way only other parents could possibly understand. (Riccardo could be right up there with them if only Andrea gave himself the permission to love anyone that much.)  
  
Deborah is near the top as well, but it is different with her – it has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with convenience and obligation. It is easy to let himself  _be_  loved and even return the affections to some extent when there are no romantic feelings to mess with his head. It is the safe route, and he can be happy with it.  
  
(At least he used to be, before Riccardo entered his life with his mesmerizing eyes and contagious laughter, wearing his heart on his sleeve at all times, and started monopolizing Andrea’s thoughts. Suddenly it was like all his careful plans had been blown away with no hope of return.)  
  
Riccardo had discarded the safe option the moment he decided to come out to their teammates in Poland. It is now a collective secret within the national team, the firm bonds of loyalty and the fear of another Cassano-ish scandal keeping them from saying anything to the outsiders.  
  
Even Cassano has learned to accept Riccardo’s sexual orientation with time: it is apparent from the comfortable way they interact with each other.  
  
Riccardo and Cristina’s break up was widely reported once it became apparent that she would not follow him to Milan. There was much speculation over the reasons behind the break up, but none of the theories came even close to the truth.  
  
To make the situation even more complicated, Riccardo and Cristina still appear in public together on a regular basis – eating out, shopping, meeting mutual friends... It keeps the rumours of them getting back together well and alive, while Andrea has to fight down the completely unwarranted bouts jealousy that threaten to swallow him whole.  
  
He is happy for Riccardo, but at the same time he cannot keep his own feelings of remorse at bay.  
  
It all works for Riccardo because he is young, fashionable and, most of all, single with a growing number of female fans screaming at the mere mention of his name – no one is going to put his sexual orientation into question unless he decides to bring it up himself.  
  
There is no such advantage for Andrea: if he were to divorce Deborah, the press and the public, as well as his family and relatives would demand a proper explanation for it. (He would have none.) And they would not stop digging before finding what they were looking for. And if his sexuality was ever revealed, he would not be the only one affected – it would affect his family, his team, Riccardo...  
  
It is not a risk worth taking, which is why he chooses to keep his family together rather than staying with the one man who has managed single-handedly to turn his world upside down.  
  
He still cannot stop himself from looking, craving, and hoping. The delicious torture of  _what if_ s in enough to keep him from forgetting, even as the exchanged looks between them grow few and far in between, and the bond they once shared all but disappears right before his eyes.  
  
 _I can live without you..._


End file.
